wandering souls
by lilabut
Summary: A collection of all sorts of drabbles and short stories about Emma and Killian. Some AU, some sad, some happy.
1. little lost bird

AU, set in the future

rated K

* * *

**little lost bird who never learned how to fly**

**_part one_**

Killian's lips pressed softly against her forehead, the touch so feather light, her eyelids fluttered closed for the breath of a moment. All her senses seemed to have intensified, and the warmth of _their_ son cradled in her arms dominated them all, spreading through her veins like a golden glow, filling her with more love than she ever thought to be capable of harboring.

It did not matter that she was more tired than ever before, every muscle and bone hidden beneath her skin aching from the exhaustion of the now passing night, the sun rising outside. Golden, full of warmth and promise, the horizon above the sea tinted in a rose so innocent, so pure.

She sighed softly as Killian's hand come to rest upon her own, tenderly supporting the small weight of their son's head. Looking down at the miracle in her arms, Emma felt tears gathering in her eyes.

_You, my little chap, are going to make one hell of a pirate one day._ Killian's words were spoken as a mere whisper, the room filled with a light silence, nothing disturbing the sleeping baby in his parents' protective arms.

Emma laughed, her fingers gently trailing along her son's clenched fist, so small, so delicate. _What if he wants to be a cook? Or an organ player? Or, I don't know, a funeral director?_ Only faintly did she remember the night she had given birth to Henry. All she remembered was the pain. The physical agony, the tearing of her heart as she caught a brief glimpse of him before he was taken away. That night, dark and cold and utterly hopeless, she had been all alone, not able to shed a single tear for the son she had lost.

Killian grinned, a different sort of grin than she was used to. It seemed peaceful, as if all burdens had been lifted off his shoulder._ I suppose I could live with that. But trust me, I know a pirate when I see one._

_He looks just like you, maybe that's why._ Their eyes met, holding a gaze that spoke more words than either of them were capable of saying. Softly, Killian brushed his lips against hers, leaning forward carefully, his hand never straying from hers as they cradled their sleeping son.

A knock on the door caused them to part. It was Mary Margaret who first glimpsed into the room, entering with quiet steps as Emma smiled brightly. David followed, closing the door behind him carefully. For a moment, Emma eyed the two of them, glowing with pride, smiling so genuinely that the tears that had gathered now threatened to fall. For the first time, she truly wanted to look at them as her parents. As her son's grandparents.

She smiled, and when they moved closer to the bed, she saw the tears slowly leaving a shiny trail on her mother's cheeks. _He's so beautiful, Emma._

Mary Margaret's hand reached out to rest against Emma's cheek, her eyes never straying from her grandson. David leaned over, a little more hesitantly, and Emma remembered that the memory of her own birth must have been not that much different than the one she carried of Henry's. This was the beginning of something new for all of them. A new chapter. A happier one.

_Have you decided on a name yet?_ Emma's eyes met Killian's, his soft nod, his hand brushing tenderly against her shoulder the confirmation she needed.

Looking up at her father, her voice threatened to falter, while her lips spread into a peaceful smile. _David. David Jones._

**_part two_**

_Davy slee, ma._ The words bubbled out of her son's mouth, no sound ever more beautiful than his innocent, sweet voice. Emma held him a little higher, nudging her nose against his softly.

_Yes, you're going to sleep now, darling._ Sitting down in the cushioned rocking chair by the window, he curtains drawn, yet a glimpse of the star speckled night sky visible, she marveled at how much he had grown, how the last year had given them all so much joy. Her son's hair, once as night black as his father's, had lightened, soft as silk strands of ashen blond framing his always flushed face.

_Will he ever get his name right?_ Henry's words carried over from the open door, and he stepped closer as Emma smiled. _Night, pirate_. A soft stroke across his little brother's head, small blue eyes, always full of mischief and charm suddenly wide awake and curious.

. .

Her fingers tenderly trailed the swell of her son's cheek, warm and soft and round and never had anything been more perfect. It pained her a little - always, every single night since he had been born - to lean away from him, whisper a soft goodnight, and turn towards the door of the small nursery. Painted in blue, white curtains like clouds, the gentle light of the lamp like a candle's glow.

A tall figure leaning against the door frame, a wide smile greeting her._ When did you come home?_

_A while ago._ Merely a whisper, the sound of their son breathing evenly in his sleep like a symphony.

_And you're just standing there?_

_I could watch you two all night._

Killian took slow, long strides until he stood next to her, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek, the kiss he placed on her lips as soft, yet filled with the longing of a day spent apart.

Fingers curling around the edge of the white crib, she watched as Killian leaned forward, brushing his lips feather lightly against their son's forehead. _Sleep tight, little pirate._

_You and Henry both seem very determined_, Emma whispered, cherishing the warmth of Killian's body as he pulled her into a tight embrace.

_I know the sea, darling. And you can see the sea when you look into his eyes._

She knew nothing better than her son's eyes, crystal clear, so deeply blue and stormy, never bothered by a single cloud.

Tucking her head beneath Killian's chin, her fingers intertwining with his, she allowed the exhaustion to wash over her._ I'm still not convinced._

_Wait and see, sweetheart. One day soon, there'll be talk of little Captain Davy Jones._

_If you keep calling him that, he'll never understand that his name is David._ A chuckle, a kiss on the crown of her head, promises and whispers as the night began to fall, the last notes of a music box fading into silence.

* * *

The title is a quote from Davy Jones in _Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End _.


	2. colorless sunrise

AU: Emma is working as a doctor at the hospital in Storybrooke, when a stranger is rushed in - a stranger accused of attempting to murder the most powerful man in town.

rated k

* * *

**colorless sunrise**

He is rushed in during one of her night shifts, and over the ringing in her ears and the dull pain in the soles of her feet, she barely understands a word when people begin talking about the man in front of her. Suppressing a yawn, her eyes scanning his chart, she wonders who he is. This small town saw strangers so rarely, and she eyes him almost curiously. Dark-haired, weathered face covered in cuts, bruises and scars. Where did he come from? What has lead him here, into this town out of all places?

. .

_Hey, beautiful._ She rolls her eyes, ignoring his words, her gaze briefly flickering to the handcuffs that restrain him to the hospital bed. His cage. His prison. A nameless man, a man of words, yet not of answers.

The words he utters are drenched in pain, and she knows he feels like dying with every breath he takes.

. .

What draws her towards him, she does not know. All she knows is that she checks on him much more frequently than necessary, an invisible pull that draws her near him over and over again.

_Why did you try to kill Gold?_ Her voice barely above a whisper, lost in the soft humming noise that echoes through the hospital.

He smiles, a crooked smile, mischievous, as if he knows he has drawn her in like a moth to the flame. _What if I told you he took my hand, and murdered the woman I loved? Would that make you despise me less?_

She does not despise him. Yet, she never speaks those words aloud.

. .

He misses no opportunity for a sneaky remark, carries his self-confidence like a banner leading an army into war, yet when she peels back the covers to examine the stump in place of his left hand, he recoils, eyes – as blue as a cloudless sky - flickering away from hers.

The tattoo on his right wrist - _Milah_. Goose bumps breaking out all over his skin as her fingers trail the delicate lines, and she pulls back her own hand, confused and taken aback by her own actions.

_You came to Storybrooke to kill someone._ Not a question. He gives no answers. Only continues to be a mystery.

_No one said I _came_ here. Tell me, darling, do many people ever visit this town?_

. .

The newspaper in her lap is drenched, raindrops smearing the ink across the thin paper, words turning into shadows and paintings.

How he had managed to get away, she does not know. The bench outside the hospital is cold, icy wind blowing through her hair. Far away, she can see Graham walking back to his car, and her throat feels constricted. Her heart seemingly telling her that she told the sheriff a lie, when truly, she knows nothing about the nameless stranger. Only, she _does_ know. Knows how much he had loved the woman called Milah. Knows he has not told her a single lie. Knows he feels as restless as she does. Knows that _he_ knows something more, something she can not quite grasp.

Soundless over the drumming of the rain, the newspaper falls onto the ground, her fingers frozen, trembling in the cold.

He has answers. Answers to questions she did not know she had.

. .

_Emma_. His lips brush only barely against her cheek, whispering her name like a chant, and her fingers struggle to find hold around his neck. _There is nothing I can tell you._

_If you're leaving, tell me one thing._ The breath of her whisper warm in between their skin, his hand pressed against her hip. _What is your name?_

He presses his forehead against hers, and for the flicker of a second, she imagines leaning forward, pressing her lips against his, giving in, ignoring the sirens in her mind, warning her with all their might._ I can't ever leave._

She wants to ask what he means, wants to know so many things, wants to kiss him so badly it burns, but she gets lost in the ocean in his eyes, inhales the salty scent he seems to have soaked up. A calloused palm cupping her cheek, lips brushing against her ear. _Killian Jones._

He walks away, disappearing back into the darkness of the woods, leaving her no chance to speak, to demand her answers, leaving her behind only with more questions.

. .

Sometimes, she finds herself staring at the horizon far away, the sun scattering diamonds across the surface of the sea, and she can almost feel him next to her.

Perhaps her answers are out there, lost at sea like the man whose face seems to fade from her memory with each passing day.

* * *

Title taken from _Every Night_ by Imagine Dragons.


End file.
